


Touch Starved

by kattastic99



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), cryaotic
Genre: Apologies to anybody that reads this, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Other, This is so very self indulgent, mild depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattastic99/pseuds/kattastic99
Summary: A simple statement, regarding a mysterious man who commits supernatural acts of manipulation and violence.
Kudos: 10





	Touch Starved

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't simple, it took me an hour, I haven't even finished listening to The Magnus Archives but I was possessed with the need to write this anyways, and if you can guess which Entity is responsible you get a prize.
> 
> Because I couldn't end up deciding myself.

Statement of Anton Higgins, regarding his relationship and penultimate interaction with a man he refers to as "Cryotic." Original statement recorded on gramophone, of all things, on August 3rd of 2015. Written transcript by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. 

Statement begins.

-

Alright, so. Yeah, I'm uh, my name is Anton, I worked at an accounting firm for several years. Cubicle farm sort of deal, y'know? And, yeah, I was feeling, stressed. Unappreciated. I had friends, some from work, some from my school days, but. 

Lemme start over. I had a friend, for a couple years, and I thought I knew him. But I didn't. I didn't know him, and I didn't know what he could do, and I didn't know this place even existed until last year, and it took me this long to come here because. I was scared, I guess. Part of me wanted to just pretend none of it had happened, but he made sure I couldn't. 

Um. Yeah, so, accounting firm. I crunched numbers for people making magnitudes more money than I did, and my day to day was spent staring at a computer screen that I wasn't allowed to use without a program running that tracked my every key stroke and mouse click. Literally the server that ran that program went down one day and they had us go home until it was fixed. They actually stopped us from working for them, because they didn't have a total stranglehold on our every action with their precious machines. 

Like I said, I felt stressed and unappreciated. And I had friends, and I hung out with them a lot, but the ones that worked with me had to deal with the same shit I did, and the ones that didn't work with me just didn't get it. They meant well, trying to suggest past times or de-stressing activities. Like I had time for that. And, y'know, therapy is. It's for people who need it, right? And I just had a rough job.

So I drank. I do see a therapist now so I know that's a bad coping mechanism, but sue me. But it was the bar I met him at. Cryotic. God, you know, I knew the guy for nearly three years, and he never told me his real name? If he even had one. 

I was drinking, I forget what, but I remember him. I remember him now that he's gone. He had a mask on, and I thought it was a bit odd, but who cares, right? Dude liked wearing a mask, good for him, I thought. It didn't obscure his whole face, just his eyes and his forehead and his nose. It wasn't even anything eye-catching, it was just a white circle with dots for eyes and a line for a mouth. 

Nothing to look at. Just a mask. Just a dude. 

He was so careful about that, y'know? Over the years, he was always telling me that he worked hard to be as forgettable as possible. Said he didn't like thinking about people having versions of him in their head he'd never know about. He preferred to just be forgotten. Except for me, he'd say, and he's smile, and I'd laugh, and I'd blush a little I'll admit. 

He introduced himself at the bar, and we chatted a bit. I was drunk, so I bitched about my work, and I guess part of me expected him to suggest shit to do, like my friends did. But he just nodded, said that it was rough, and asked me what I did when I had the time to relax.

It was weirdly refreshing, for him to assume I knew how to handle my own life. I told him that I liked to watch old music videos, and he nodded. Asked me about my favorites, as he pulled out his phone. 

He showed an interest in my life, in what I had interest in. He seemed so nice. And he was. I ended up asking him for his number, and he said he had a boyfriend, and I said I was straight. Just. Wanted to maybe hang out again, since I'd had such a nice time talking with him. 

I am straight, you know. But he made me question that. He made me question everything, especially near the end. 

I never called him, I never texted him. He texted me. We would make plans to meet up, then we'd hang, and he was just. He was kind, and he was understanding, and when he couldn't understand he didn't put any pressure on me to help him. It's actually kinda sad, but he taught me a lot about how to communicate healthily. 

About a year after meeting him, we were hanging out almost every day. Whenever I didn't have plans with anyone else, he would text me and I'd tell him to come over and we'd hang.

Never noticed that he had never once texted me when I already had plans. Not once in two and a half years. There was a lot I didn't notice until he left. Like how, even though I was pouring my heart out to him, falling for him, learning about his childhood and his interests and getting so close, I never talked about him.

Never thought about him.

Never texted him first. Never thought of him when I was shopping. I never watched the things he recommended to me, because when he wasn't there, I wasn't thinking about him.

He'd told me himself the day we met, but I didn't pay attention to it. He didn't like people having interpretations of him that he had no control over. I'd thought back then that he was just telling me about a personal quirk.

Never thought he meant that he had control over what people thought of him. Who would, right? I mean. I don't think he mind controlled me. I really did like spending time with him. He was an amazing friend. Always concerned, never really offering advice unless I asked for it, but if he thought I needed to hear something he'd tell me.

He helped me pick up on a lot of red flags I never noticed, urged me to cut people out of my life that I eventually did. But even then, I wasn't thinking of him, or his words. He changed my perspective on things, but I never really noticed unless I was thanking him for it. 

Every moment we spent together was a happy one. That's not normal, is it? I know it's not, but back then I was just happy to have him as a friend. 

Two years after we met, I noticed a change in his behavior, he started getting more cagey whenever I talked about my other friends. Eventually I asked him what was up, and he told me that he was just worried. He said that, that all these stories I was telling him, they were sounding more and more toxic as time went on. He was worried my friends were growing apart, or were being manipulative. And I told him not to worry.

But he changed my perspective on things, even though I never really noticed.

I started becoming defensive at my other friends, snappy. I accused a couple of them of using me for my money, or emotional support. I pushed so many of them away. 

It was two and a half years after I'd met my best friend in the world that I confessed to him that he felt like the only friend I had left. Like he was the only person in the world that really cared about me. 

He laughed.

I told him, no, really, and I leaned close, and I told him... Told him that I didn't know if I felt like he was just a friend. I'd been so confused for so long, about my feelings for him, and now I didn't have anybody else and I just. I was worried that I was latching onto him in an unhealthy way. He was such a good friend, I wanted to tell him upfront. I didn't want to end up using him, like my friends had been using me.

I never once saw his eyes, but I knew they lit up in that moment. I saw something shift in his body language. It was, it was almost like he'd become a different person. I'll never forget what he said to me, then, no matter how long I live. 

"They weren't using you, Anton, I was just fucking with you."

It was almost like my brain jerked to a stop, in that moment. Everything I knew about him, everything, told me that he couldn't be serious. But everything I knew about him told me he'd never say something like this at all, but he did. And he just smiled, and he laughed again, and it was far sharper this time. Like he was trying to cut me with it. 

And, I, I know that. That this all sounds like I had a bad friend, like I shouldn't be here. But I know what I saw him do, after he stopped laughing. I tried to drink it away, tried to just forget, but even though he's gone he still won't let me forget. 

I saw his mask smile. The line curved into a smile, and then it parted into a grin with these, the teeth were just. They weren't lines. They were real, actual teeth, and they were sharp. The fucking thing had gums. And he laughed again, and his mouth.... It was just gone. His lips were gone, the lower half of his face, the part exposed, it was smooth skin. Not even a scar. The only thing that remained of his mouth was a crude drawing of one.

But the drawing moved as he talked. The grinning mouth on his mask moved too. 

"Man, your face is honestly worth the time I put into this. Usually it's like, six months tops, but two and a half years! You really took some work, Anton. Your friends really cared about you. One of the toughest support networks I've ever wrecked."

He pushed at my shoulder playfully, like the friend he'd been for years, and I was just staring at him. I could barely even make sense of what was happening. I didn't notice all the colors in my apartment fading away. And it's odd, but, this was the first time I had ever actually noticed his clothes. It was almost like. Like I'd only ever been looking at his mask and his face. And I realized, then, that it was because that's what I'd been doing for two and a half years. 

His clothes were ruined. By age and neglect, if nothing else. Countless stains and tears and holes. Just an old t-shirt and some jeans, but they'd long since faded to that worn out white your jeans get after a hundred washes. His shirt might have been blue, once. 

He looked starved, now that I was paying attention to his body. Now that I could, pay attention to his body. His face looked fine, but from the neck down he was emaciated to an absurd degree. I could actually see the tendons in his arms, that ran over the back of his hands. I'm not a doctor, but I don't think those work without muscles. Didn't seem to stop him, though.

He'd handed me things, you know. I knew for two and a half years, of course he did, but I never once saw his hands. 

"Huh." I remember how surprised he'd sounded. I remember everything about his voice, in this. Event. I can't forget anything about this entire final meeting with him, no matter how hard I try. "It's small, but. You're actually concerned, aren't you?"

I opened my mouth but he just waved his hand, dismissing me, and I let him. "Don't bother. I'm on my way out, I just." And he paused, and he looked thoughtful. I watched the bony, disfigured fingers of his hand as he scratched at his chin, fingers sliding over his drawn on mouth. "You still care about me. I wasn't expecting that. You still have a few friends, your life isn't in ruins. You have options, and you still want me to stay. That's a real first!"

He sounded so intrigued. He was smiling so genuinely, too. It hit me like a sack of rotten meat, that this was the first time he was genuinely interested in me. 

That only made him smile wider. Too wide. The drawing was curling around over his cheeks, and his mask split into two separate pieces. The mouth, it must have still been whole, it's just. The circle of the mask, it wasn't wide enough to show me the whole mouth anymore. And I realized that the mouth wasn't actually part of the mask. It was just, showing through it, like a projector on a screen. Except there wasn't mask between the grinning teeth. 

I could see the tongue, and the throat, it was grinning so wide. He knew I was looking, because his grin just kept getting wider, until there wasn't any white mask left. Just the tops and bottoms of those teeth. 

"Do you still want to kiss me, Anton?" I never told him that, but even then I was starting to realize that didn't matter. 

"No, of course not, my lips are gone," he said, almost as if he was just thinking out loud. But then he snapped his fingers, and I still don't know how it worked with they were the way they were. "Would you like to hold my hands?"

I looked down at his hands, and I was reaching for them before I even processed it. I tried to pull them back, but. I just didn't. I wanted to, but I didn't. I kept reaching for his hands, even though I didn't want to. 

The skin of his hands was cold, and the bones were so firm beneath the frail membrane of flesh he still had. 

"Even now, you worry. Fascinating." He said it so softly. I don't think it was meant for me. 

I don't think a single thing about our relationship was for me, actually. Even when he helped me, it wasn't for my sake. It was for the sake of this moment. 

He made me love him, just so he could enjoy the moment where he took it away. 

I watched as he bent down a little, as he guided my hands, clasped so gently in his, towards the gaping maw of his mask. I watched as he held my wrists and slid my hands through the place his mask would have stopped me if it wasn't for the mouth. Up to the place my thumbs met my palm. 

"There it is," he said, and I could almost hear a literal purr of satisfaction as he said it. "Your fear, Anton, is the best I've tasted yet."

The mouth didn't bite down. I never felt the teeth against my skin. The mask simply closed back up over the mouth, and he let me go. I wasn't even bleeding, that was the part that I really hated. That I still hate. 

I felt every last one of my fingers shatter, but only after he'd stolen them. To this day I don't know if I get phantom pains, or if I just reconnect with them. By the time I stopped screaming, and I could focus on anything again, I was alone. 

I lost my job. A few of my old friends came back to help me. The few I still had helped me too. I told them about Cryotic, but I'd never mentioned him in the two and a half years I'd known him. I never took any pictures on my phone, I never mentioned him, nobody else had ever seen him. They thought I'd been attacked or something, or that I had been suffering from delusions. 

I went to therapy, I got examined, the whole nine yards. I healed. I have prosthetics. His number was gone off my phone, all records of our texts had vanished, but I wasn't alone. 

Then last year he sent me a text message. Told me about this place. The message deleted itself right after I read it, and it's taken me the past year to work up the courage to come here, and tell you about all of this. 

I always did what he wanted. 

-

Statement ends. 

While I had assumed that the cursory investigation into this statement would turn up nothing more than medical records of a deranged man's therapist meetings, Sasha went a step further and investigated Anton's phone records during the years of interest. She discovered that a large portion of his incoming messages were texts from the same unknown number. All attempts to recover the number in question have resulted in rather expensive failure, as the operating systems in use would delete themselves. 

Predictably enough, all attempted investigations into the possible existence of this "Cryotic" ended in failure as well, although thankfully far less destructive ones. 

Martin was able to acquire photos taken at the hospital of Anton's hands, however, along with the x-rays taken. The bones simply end, as if cut with something particularly sharp. The skin, however, is not scarred or damaged. His hands simply end in smooth, unmarred flesh. There are, however, what appear to be five tattoos on each of these stumps, which align perfectly with where the severed bones end, just beneath the skin. 

I have included a copy of these photos and x-rays with this document. Hopefully Martin won't lose them when he files this. 

I apologize for the inevitable lack of corroborating evidence.


End file.
